


Make My Blood Thump

by hostagesfic



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Comeplay, M/M, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-28
Updated: 2013-01-28
Packaged: 2017-11-27 06:44:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,761
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/659052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hostagesfic/pseuds/hostagesfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Because every respected tattooed bloke needs an arse tattoo,” he had claimed, and Zayn had rolled his eyes and flashed him his own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Make My Blood Thump

**Author's Note:**

  * For [unevenfootsteps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/unevenfootsteps/gifts).



> Lizz wanted more Zarry and to be honest the premise was hot. AU where Zayn is a prickly tattoo artist and Harry is his client-turned-boyfriend. Please excuse the way S cannot keep her kinks out a single fic we write. Title from Sour Cherry by The Kills.

It always starts the same way. Zayn likes working on Harry as his last client of the day- always has, from that first time Harry came in for his first piece when they were barely an hour away from closing- and then walking back to his flat with Harry on his arm to keep him from picking at the tape around his bandaged tattoo and make sure he takes good care of it for the first few hours. (At least that's what he tells himself, and Harry hasn't called him out on it.)

It starts with Harry pulling the plastic wrap off when Zayn tells him to and almost pressing his nose to the tattoo, looking at it closely. This time he has a rose on his right forearm, just below his elbow and about the size of a tennis ball, and when it heals it'll be a fading pinkish white, but for now it's red and swollen. Zayn eyes him warily from above the rim of his teacup and pretends to be annoyed when Harry steps between his legs where he's leaning against the kitchen counter.

"I _love_ it," he beams, leans in and pecks Zayn's lips, and Zayn's mouth pulls up at the corner.

“Looks good on you, Haz. Helps fill in your fucking not-sleeve, too.”

“Hey,” Harry frowns, chewing on his lip. Zayn calls his arms the islands of misfit tattoos; Harry refuses to unify or organize his tattoos and it drives Zayn up the wall, the messy scribbles he’s gotten from Tom along his left shoulder clashing with the bigger pieces, the stupid constellations- actual ones with little stars connected by lines- he’s amassed looking like biro next to the big anchor under “things I can’t” on his inner left forearm. “I’ve still got plenty of room, I don’t wanna shade it in when I could come up with something else to add.”

Zayn rolls his eyes, sets his teacup down so he can pull Harry in by the hips, kiss him soundly. “Y’should let me pick something, next time.” Zayn’s not silly enough to believe he’s got exclusive rights to Harry’s skin- Harry will go to visit Louis in Manchester and come back with new pieces every other weekend, or he’ll pop over to Ireland and come home with some obscure gaelic blessing across his shoulders (that was only once but Zayn hasn’t gotten over it yet; “how do you _know_ that’s what it actually says?” Zayn is paranoid about these things ever since his own second tattoo.). And he may suggest things, or mention them in passing, but he’s never _asked_ for his own tattoo on Harry, either. But it might be time he did.

“What would you want me to get?” Harry grins, hands at the back of Zayn’s neck, playing with the ends of his hair. “I’m thinking a lime or something.”

It earns him a jab at the ribs, right where he has a verse from Song of Myself. “That’s _shit_ ,” Zayn grunts as Harry snickers, “if you get a lime tattooed on you ‘ll have to dump you.”

“You’re just mad ‘cos it fits,” Harry sing-songs, and leans forward to kiss Zayn again before he can grumble about it.

 _That’s_ when it really starts- when Harry decides to be a shit and push his hips against Zayn’s, let a breathless little moan out against Zayn’s lips, making a show of how much he’s enjoying a lazy, late night snog in Zayn’s crummy kitchen, because that’s just who Harry is. Zayn kisses back but tries to remain firm, hands going tight at Harry’s hips, fingers digging into the stray constellations off the corner of his hipbone.

Harry whines, pressing himself forward in a slow grind just off-rhythm of how he’s fucking his tongue into Zayn’s mouth, and Zayn scrapes his teeth over the sensitive skin below Harry’s bottom lip, trying to draw back. Harry only follows him, though, pressing the silly, needy little sounds onto Zayn’s lips like it’s _important_ he hear them. 

“Oi,” Zayn says, and Harry makes a displeased sound against his mouth, keeps on kissing the corner of Zayn’s mouth as he speaks. “Y’have a fresh tattoo; I’d be a shit artist if I let you sweat w’that.”

“It’ll be okay,” Harry whines against Zayn’s jaw, nipping and biting over his scruff. “Not the first.”

“You have work early tomorrow,” Zayn offers, just as Harry reaches his neck and the tender spot below Zayn’s ear. “I’m running out of excuses,” he says, the last of it half lost between a muttered curse when Harry tugs at his earring with his teeth.

“So fuck me,” Harry mutters, breathes over the newly wet skin beside Zayn’s earlobe and moves down to suck a mark against his pulse. 

“Minx,” Zayn grunts, and pushes Harry away by the hips. Harry doesn’t have time to frown, because just as quickly he’s being pulled to Zayn’s bedroom, tripping over his own feet in his excitement. Zayn really ought to stop letting Harry have his way so often.

Zayn pushes him onto the bed with a slap to his arse just to hear Harry’s breath hitch, to see the way he scrambles forward on the mattress and stares back at Zayn with dark green eyes. “Please?” he says, and it’s so fucking _Harry_ , to say something and make it sound like a challenge and a request at the same time.

“Clothes off, then,” Zayn says with a tip of his chin, unbuckling his belt and working at his flies as he kicks off his boots. He watches Harry undress, fumbling with the buttons on his work shirt and trying to pull his socks off at the same time. He has the decency, at least, to slide the shirt carefully off his right arm under Zayn’s stern gaze.

When Harry shimmies out of his tight jeans there’s miles of skin and a few dark smudges of ink- a portrait of his cat that still lives back at his mum’s above his left knee that still makes Zayn scowl, an abstract swirl of color around a hibiscus on his right calf. Zayn digs inside the bedside drawer for the lube before settling in between Harry’s legs, pulling them up under the knees and pushing them wider. “Mind the bloody arm,” he grunts, and Harry nods, eyes wide and lip between his teeth, drapes his arm across his ribs to keep it off the sheets.

Harry’s a general little shit about being patient at the best of times, and now it’s worse. Zayn knows why, gets it, probably better than anyone else would; the way the ache of the tattoo gun is still singing under his skin, the way the burn and the itch is still fresh and new and _good_ , and Harry doesn’t want to lose that before they get to fuck. It’s just that Zayn has a hard time feeling sorry for him when Harry is writhing on the sheets in front of him, grinding down on his fingers until his arse hits Zayn’s knuckles, whimpering at the feel of cool metal against his hot skin when he presses back against Zayn’s rings. Zayn definitely doesn’t feel sorry for him. He just wants to fuck him up a little bit more.

“How d’you want it, Haz?” he asks- he’s already decided he wants to fold Harry up with his knees against his chest, because Harry tends to fall on his forearms when he takes it on his hands and knees and that won’t do with the fresh tattoo, but it’s nice to ask. “‘s like this good, babe?” he hums, twisting his fingers up inside Harry, just a half inch off his prostate.

Harry jerks and scrunches his face up, scowls at Zayn before he’s gasping as Zayn pulls his fingers out. “Pleaseplease,” he says, jumbled up, grinning now like he’s won the world at a carnival, just because he knows that Zayn wouldn’t tease him like this, that the snick of the lube bottle and Zayn slicking up his cock means that he’s going to get what he wants sooner rather than later. “You- just, deep.”

It’s not like Zayn was planning on anything but, anyway. He rubs the head of his cock around the slick rim of Harry’s hole with a hand around the base and thumbs at the tiny lifesaver candy tattooed on the curve of his arse (“Because every respected tattooed bloke needs an arse tattoo,” he had claimed, and Zayn had rolled his eyes and flashed him his own.). As soon as Harry gives him the go he sets a rhythm, quick and relentless, hooks one of Harry’s legs over his shoulder for good measure. Harry keeps his eyes open, peering owlishly up at Zayn, his skin going shiny with sweat that makes the birds on his chest stand out in the flush that crawls all the way from Harry’s cheeks down his neck and collarbones.

He’s shaking, leftover adrenaline and how much he likes it like this, digging his long fingers into Zayn’s forearms where he’s bracing himself, and Zayn isn’t even giving him more than half of his cock yet, pulling back every time Harry shoves his hips down. 

“ _More_ ,” Harry whines, reaches up and tugs at Zayn’s hair at his nape, and Zayn growls, dips his head and bites Harry’s neck. He has a brief moment of struggling between not wanting to let Harry have his way and needing more himself, before he says fuck it, and shoves his hips harshly against Harry’s arse, on his knees for leverage.

Harry’s eyelids flutter shut and his mouth drops open, tongue licking his lips absently like he’s trying to find the taste of Zayn’s mouth from their earlier kisses- Zayn shudders and grinds his hips against Harry’s bum, because if Harry wants to play dirty. Well, it’s a game they’re both a little too good at.

Harry slides his stupid big hand around Zayn’s neck, thumbing at his pulse, the same place he’d left a mark, earlier, and cups Zayn’s jaw, opens his eyes. “C’mon, _fuck_ me.”

“Dirty,” Zayn grits out, lifts Harry’s other leg over his shoulder and pistons his hips, panting. He should probably stop smoking, but that’s the last of his worries with Harry tipping his head back and exposing his throat, one of the few places he has left inkless for now, shiny with sweat. “C’mon, Harry,” he says, leaning down to smear his lips messily over Harry’s adam’s apple, “let’s have you, yeah? Lemme hear’t.”

“‘m not-” Harry swallows, convulsively, and the motion makes Zayn’s teeth scrape his skin, makes his prick jerk between them- Zayn’s leaning in close enough now that he can feel it bobbing between them on every hard thrust. “not dirty. Not yet.”

“Working on it,” Zayn smirks, angles his hips to make Harry whine. “You’re close, I can tell,” he rushes out, scratches his fingernails down Harry’s side, leaving faint lines on his pale skin.

“F’off,” Harry whimpers, and he’s having trouble keeping his eyes open, can’t manage more than a second of glaring at Zayn before his head is lolling into the pillow again. He keeps trying to move his legs, spread them further without letting them fall off Zayn’s shoulders, and it’s doing nothing to convince Zayn that he’s wrong.

Zayn pulls his lip between his teeth and tries to keep up his pacing as he aims for Harry’s prostate- as much as he gets that Harry wants the feeling to last, there’s something about the determined little wrinkle between his brows that makes Zayn want to foil his plans and absolutely wreck him. “Come _on_ , Harry.”

Harry gasps, and scratches all down Zayn’s shoulder and chest trying to get his hand on his cock, and Zayn might fight him for it usually but he’s nearly choking, now, trying to get the words out, “please, Zayn, gotta, touch me fuck, oh,” and Zayn just fits his hands into the sharp bones of Harry’s hips and pulls him up, fucks him so they can both hear the wet sound it makes and the softer skin-on-skin noise of his balls hitting Harry’s arse.

It isn’t long before Harry’s eyes fall shut again and Zayn finally gets a hand around him, jerks him with his fist tight around the upper half and pushes his thumb under the head to send him over the edge. Harry tenses up and shudders, moans as he spurts messily on his stomach and over the wolf on his hip and up to the words inked on his ribs, Zayn fucking him hard through it and stroking him in time. “Yeah,” Zayn grunts, “like that, Haz, s’good.”

Harry groans long and low through it, finally going breathless and silent, mouth still open around Zayn’s name. He’s clingy, after, reaching up for Zayn’s hair again and running his other hand over Zayn’s chest, trying to touch as many of Zayn’s tattoos as he can reach before getting distracted and rubbing through the come splattered on his own.

“Terrible habit,” Zayn scolds him- his rhythm is a little slower now, but he’s still going deep, can’t bring himself to pull out much with how hot and tight Harry feels around him.

“Don’t you have some coming of your own t’do?” Harry mumbles, bringing his thumb up to lick a smudge of come off of it, sleepy-eyed and impossible.

“No,” Zayn says dryly. “Nope.”

Harry pouts and puts his tongue out, then seems to remember he’s still got a finger half in his mouth and licks it clean sloppily. He still looks a little out of it, sort of hazy around the edges, but Zayn knows he loves that, so he won’t make any effort to pull him back. He does lean forward, though, getting closer to Harry’s face and propping himself up on a hand above Harry’s shoulder. Harry turns and nuzzles into it, the little shit, lets his mouth fall open in wet kisses against Zayn’s fingers until he’s whimpering again, “Z, please-”

“Y’filthy,” Zayn shakes his head but brings his fingertips to Harry’s lips anyway, has to close his eyes when Harry sucks hard on his index and middle finger, pressing his tongue in between them. Zayn pulls away his hand after a second to swipe it through the mess on Harry’s belly, and Harry makes a happy sound at the salty, tangy taste he licks off.

It backfires horribly, because Zayn doesn’t foresee the way that watching Harry suck his own come out from in between Zayn’s fingers, tongue flicking out over Zayn’s heavy gold ring, does more than Zayn could’ve ever predicted to cock up his rhythm and have him dropping his head on Harry’s chest as he comes with one last hard thrust. He keeps his hips moving jerkily, mouths at Harry’s stupid bird tattoos, the cold metal chain of his necklace leaving an indent on his cheek.

“Mmm,” Harry purrs, predictably, stretching and letting one leg slide off Zayn’s shoulder, pressing his heel to Zayn’s arse and pulling him in further. 

“You’re such an _octopus_ ,” Zayn grumbles, and Harry laughs, above him, massaging Zayn’s shoulders in silent, smug acquiescence. 

“And you’re the one getting horribly dirty right now,” he points out, just as Zayn’s deciding that he might as well pass out, right here, right now. 

“Oh,” Zayn says, and struggles up onto his elbows, “oh, oh you little _shit_ , Harry, fuck-” he’s pretty sure there’s quickly cooling come all across his chest and neck and even a little on his cheek, and he blames Harry for an orgasm nice enough that he hadn’t noticed until now, and for not _stopping him from laying down in what was obviously an ocean of jizz_. 

He manages to roll off and glare at Harry, considers reaching for his pack and lighter just to spite the bastard, but they’re all the way over there and Zayn’s all the way over here, and. Well. “I don’t know what I see in you,” he grunts, but pulls Harry in by the shoulders just the same, slips a hand into his sweaty curls. “I know what I want you to get next,” he decides.

“Yeah?” Harry says, and it sounds like laughter against Zayn’s mouth.

“Yeah. _‘I’m a terrible person’_ , right on y’forehead where everyone can see. I’ll do it myself,” Zayn offers, and Harry laughs, delighted.

“With a lime next to it?” he asks, tracing the Arabic on Zayn’s collarbone with his fingertips.

“With your fucking lime,” Zayn confirms.

 


End file.
